Chapter 5

Travis and Ned settle into Cassopolis

It was night by the time the train rolled into the station on the southeast side of Cassopolis.  It slowed and came to a halt.  Ned and I grabbed our suitcases and headed for the closest exit. 

“Where to now?” Ned asked as we stood on the platform. 

“We’ll check into our room first.”

“Then?”

“Then we’ll begin our search for McAllan.”

“Right.  Le’s jus’ follow the invisible trail.”

“We’ll make our own trail,” I said as I dragged my suitcase behind me. There were only a dozen or so others exiting the train.

“I g’wab those f’aw ya’, sir,” a short man with cricked teeth wearing a tilted clerk’s cap reached for my suitcase. His black pants and suit coat were worn white at the joints.

“Sure thing,” I told him.  Ned also handed the man his own suitcase.  The man then followed us down Broadway Street. Our hotel was on the corner of Broadway and State and just around the corner from a Baptist church and South from the Cass County courthouse. 

In the lobby, the clerk was a portly woman with a thick, Wisconsin accent.

“From up north, eh?” I asked her as she took my check.

“Por’jugal,” she sarcastically answered and handed us our keys. The deep wrinkles around her mouth etched a permanent scowl into her lower face.

I thanked her but before turning asked, “Where can I find a man named Jonathon McAllan?”

The portly clerk’s cheeks turned flush beneath her already rouge-colored make up. “Who’d ja’ say?” she shot back.

I immediately noticed her demeanor change and slightly leaned over the counter between us.  “McAllan and the Underground Railroad,” I repeated. 

She laughed in my face.  I could smell the coffee on her breath.

“He never lived ‘ere,” she continued laughing.  “Are ya’ the police?”

“What’ta ya’ mean he never lived here?” I asked.

“As far as I’m concerned, he never even existed.”

I laughed mockingly, heartily. 

“Yu’r crazy, lady.  He’s in newspapers.”

She shook her head. 

“I’ve heard the name.  But I am telling ya’, Jonathon McAllan’s a myth " like Santa Claus or George Washington.”

“George Washington?” Ned inserted.

“Don’ let ‘er get us off track,” I whispered to him.  “She’s acting dumb t’uh throw us off.”

“I heard that,” she told me. 

I turned back to her and continued the investigation.  “If Jonathon McAllan’s a myth, then who robbed all those banks in Detroit?”

“Never heard ‘uv it.”

I slammed the counter between us with my fist in frustration. The others in the lobby jumped at the sound of the thud it created.

“How have you not heard of Detroit?”

“I’ve heard of Detroit, ya’ coot, but I never heard about McAllan robbing banks.”

“We are getting nowhere,” my friend interjected again.

“He’s ‘uh myth made up by newspapers to stir fear in anyone planning on ownin’ slaves,” she said, leaning over the counter. Her large bosom pressed against the wooden surface.  “It’s an effective tool f’ur young’uns of slave owners.  They even have lil’ songs they sing ‘bout McAllan.  But he does not exist.”

 “Thank you,” I said.  “But, respectfully, you don’t know what y’ur talking about.”

Ned, the man carrying our suitcases and I walked up the stairs toward our room.  At our door, I turned to the man.

“Thank you very much for the help,” I motioned for him to put our suitcases down at the front of the door.  He did so.  Then I pulled a couple of coins from my pocket and held them out for him to grab. 

“No, no, s’aw,” he said with his lazy tongue.  He motioned with his hands that he did not want the money. 

“You don’t want money?”

“No, s’aw,” he answered with a slight bow and grin.

“What’s it you want?” I asked. 

“If it’s possib’aw to sleep,” he pointed to our room. 

“You’ve got t’uh be kidding me,” Ned said, rolling his eyes.

“You want to sleep in our room?” I asked just to clarify. 

He nodded.  “Yes, please.”

I looked toward Ned.  He fixed his glasses and shrugged his shoulders. 

“Why not?” I said with my own shoulder shrug.

I turned back to the man. 

“Well, I guess we owe ya’ f’ur carrying our luggage all this way,” I said. 

I opened the door and the three of us walked in.

As we unpacked our suitcases Ned asked, “Are we turnin’ in for the night?”

“Friend,” I started, “have you ever gone hunting before?”

“Yes, I have, actually.  Whatta ‘bout it?”

I continued with my well-thought-out analogy. 

“When yu’r on the hunt, and you shoot an ox…”

“An ox?  When would you hunt an ox?”

“Alright, then a fox.  The whole point is you only have five minutes before the animal’s scent dissipates and the blood hound loses its trail.”

Ned stopped unpacking and looked at me. 

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“What I’m trying to say is that we are running out of time.  The more we wait, the harder it will be to find McAllan.”

“So I’m guessing we’re headin’ out again?” Ned asked.

“No.  We’re sleeping,” I said. 

“What was all that talk ‘bout the hunt going cold?” he asked.

“Well, depends on what yu’r hunting,” I said.  “An ox is slow.”

“The Underground Railroad’s slow like an ox?” Ned asked.

“I really don’t know,” I said.  “I lost the point of my analogy a few minutes ago.”

There was a gas lamp between the two beds.  Ned lit it, and the three of us prepared for bed.  I slept in the bed closest to the window, Ned slept closest to the door and our new friend slept in between us on the floor.  Once we were settled, I blew out the lamp, and the room went dark minus the moonlight coming in through the window. 

Author's Note

Once again, had to go over maps of Cassopolis from the late 19th century. I'm not even sure if the Michigan Central extended out to Cassopolis at that time. But, hey, it's literary fiction, not historical fiction.