Free Shadow Falls: Badlands by Mark Yoshimoto Nemcoff

was Dunburton with Galen’s reserved seat to his right. Galen looked down at the fine tablecloth, the fancy china, and pristine silverware. In his simple clothes he felt like tumbleweed that had just blown into a church dance.
    Entering from the kitchen was the same woman who had answered the door. She carried a silver tray, which was piled with mutton chops and a bowl of roasted red potatoes.
    Galen watched as she silently served the food onto their plates before picking up the tray to go back to the kitchen.
    “Leave the tray, Matty,” Dunburton told her. Following her orders, she laid the tray down and left.
    “Can’t let them leave with the food because sometimes they eat it,” Dunburton said, cutting into his mutton chop. “Matty’s a fine slave. Been with our family all her life, but you still have to keep a tight leash on her. Last week I caught another one of my slaves trying to teach her how to read.”
    Galen nodded as he chewed. Not because he agreed, though, but because this was the best meal he’d had in as long as he could remember. With the back of his hand he wiped the juices from his lips.
    “Tell me, Tom, where do you stand on the Negro question?”
    “Pardon me?”
    “You don’t seem to have the kind of accent that would lead me to believe you’re from these parts. You from back east?”
    “No,” Galen responded, taking another forkful of food.
    “Then where do you stand?”
    “Never thought about it much. Reckon it’s because I’ve never had slaves of my own. Been a poor man all my life; never owned much more than the clothes on my back.”
    Dunburton laughed as he wiped the grease from his mouth with the corner of his linen serviette. “I’ll tell you this much, Tom. Now that this country has finally fulfilled that American promise called Manifest Destiny and that unnecessary, and some would say unjust, war we started a few years back in someone else’s country is over with, we are coming upon another itch that will have to be scratched: this whole issue of slavery—and I fear that time will come soon enough. For I am a veteran of two wars, the British re-incursion of 1812 and this last one in Mexico. Terrible business, both of them. Terrible.”
    Galen said nothing and kept eating the delicious supper that had been prepared for him. As Dunburton drank more he continued his political musings with his houseguest.
    “Tom, we are alive at the most exciting time in history. This is the birth of the modern age. The telegraph; the daguerreotype. We are more advanced than any civilization that ever walked the earth.” Dunburton drained his glass again and stared at Galen.
    “Sir, I cannot help but continue to think yours is a familiar face to me. Did you say that you served in the war?”
    “No,” answered Galen flatly.
    “That’s quite peculiar,” the banker continued. “For as I live and breathe, there’s something about your face that strikes me as one I’ve seen on the battlefield. Must be this old bourbon and my flagging memory.”
    Galen finished what was on his plate, noticing Dunburton had barely touched his. Finally the banker called for Matty to clean up the plates, barking at her harshly when she dropped a fork onto the floor.
    As she left the room, Dunburton poured himself another drink, his unsteady hand shaking the neck of his bottle against the rim of the tumbler.
    “You’re not Irish, are you Tom? Holt doesn’t sound Irish.”
    “No, sir.” Galen realized that he had no idea where the kin of someone named Holt would actually hail from.
    “That’s good, Tom, because the Irish are becoming a scourge in nearly every city. They infest like bugs. You see my hatred of the Irish goes back to the war. You ever heard of the San Patricios?”
    “Can’t say as I have,” Galen lied.
    “Goddamned cowards. Bunch of lily-livered Irish Catholics who defected from the U.S. Army to go fight for Santa Ana. Can you believe that? Joining up with those dirty Mexican