“What do you think is going on?” Quint asked speculatively, just to make conversation.
“I think they’re waiting for King’s goons to show up and tell us all to get lost.”
Finnie’s tone had been so hard, Quint’s eyes went right to her face. Her expression was stony, but her gaze wasn’t locked on the townspeople. No, instead, she was searching the stands of pine, the pines they’d come to cut.
Quint joined her in looking for King’s men, the “goons” she mentioned, but saw no sign of them, or their tracks.
Knowing full well why they’d be nearby, he played dumb. “King’s ranch is a few miles that way. Why would his men be over here?”
Her lips tugged down slightly, and she looked almost anxious when she replied, “Because the mining camp is just over that hill. We have to go right by it to reach the stand of the town’s Christmas pines.”
Up ahead, the leaders began moving again, the horse-drawn sleighs carefully picking their way up the hill. Finnie’s shoulders relaxed slightly at the sight.“King’s goons have been keeping people away from this area for a while. Reverend Trapper tried to head up here last week to check on the pines, but got turned away.”
It was their turn to join in the procession, and they both clucked their horses into motion, but didn’t push them. With the sleighs ahead of them, the snow had been tamped down a bit, but caution still made the going slow.
Quint thought about her explanation. In the last month, he’d done his fair share of snooping and had heard the story of the pastor’s attempt. In fact, he’d come up here himself a few weeks back, just to get the lay of the land, and had been turned back by Burton, one of King’s men, who’d claimed he was trespassing.
Now, Quint knew the law, and knew just how far a badge and a confident attitude could get him, but unfortunately, so did Burton. The other man had stoically kept repeating Mr. King’s order, and since King was the landowner, Quint had bowed out gracefully.
But only for a few hours.
The snows hadn’t really set in yet by that time, so it’d been easy to head back up there that night after Cinco was asleep and while Finnie had been occupied with the evening drinkers. He’d avoided the lone man left to patrol the area, and snuck in to see the camp.
And that’s how he knew the reason King was so anxious to keep the townspeople from seeing it.
“So,” he began casually, “why do you think no one’s stopping us today?”
Was it his imagination, or did Finnie look pleased? Sure, there was a faint smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eyes he hadn’t seen before, but maybe that was because they were being allowed to celebrate their Christmas tradition the way she'd wanted them to.
Still, she merely shrugged, tightening her hold on the boy as her horse carefully picked its way around some boulders. “I dunno. Maybe they’re all sick? Or maybe Mr. King had a change of heart.”
Now he thought about it, there had been some talk that day about whether the excursion was a good idea at all. About half the townspeople wanted to just give up and find another stand of pines for their trees after the Reverend’s experience. But the other half—Finnie among them—had argued for tradition, hoping King would change his mind and let them through.
Had she heard something, some rumor, which told her their adventure today would be successful?
Watching her quietly answering Cinco’s questions, Quint decided that was likely the case. Finnie seemed to hear everything, and didn’t mind spreading the gossip and rumors she heard. He’d been a little surprised by that at first, because gossip seemed too frivolous for a serious business owner like her, but after a week or so, he realized it was her business.
Quint had slowly been accepted by her regulars, but even before then, when he was still recovering from the gunshot, he’d sit with his back to the corner and sip his whiskey, while watching her serve her patrons and interact with them. That’s when he’d begun to realize the gossip was part of some overall plan.
She was friendly and cheerful and welcoming, and her regulars told her things. In return, she passed on what she thought was relevant, and it didn’t take Quint long to figure out what that meant. The stories she shared were about townspeople who needed help, or were in trouble with King, or who’d helped someone else out. By spreading those stories, she was inspiring others to take action to help their neighbors.
After he’d realized that, Quint had started paying more attention to her customers. Who were the men most interested in her stories? Who asked the most questions? Who looked as if he didn’t care, and who was pretending? Who was doing the good deeds she’d bragged about?
He hadn’t been able to find a pattern, but hadn’t given up. As the weeks went on, and he’d been accepted as a regular, the townsmen started to chat with him too, filling him in on the latest goings-on and the deeds of the Black Ace.
The mysterious vigilante was a favorite topic.
Quint had been sent here to track the criminal down, to put a stop to what Mr. King called his “reign of terror.” And being shot by the man as soon as he’d arrived damn well hadn’t endeared the Ace to Quint, that was for sure. But Mr. King himself had come to visit Quint after the shooting, and although he’d acted concerned, Quint had noted the man’s…desperation. King had been hiding something, and although Sheriff McNelis—whom Quint had realized was completely incompetent—had sneered at the idea of a negro US Marshal, Quint had begun to think King’s concern went deeper.
And the times he’d met the de facto mayor of the town since then, Quint’s impression hadn’t improved. King was not only hiding the truth from his neighbors—the empty mining camp was proof of that—he was getting desperate.
And the more suspicious King looked, the more intriguing the Black Ace became.
While he’d been recovering, Finnie had told Quint all sorts of stories about the masked man. Apparently, she herself had been a beneficiary of the man’s generosity, when she’d been too deep in the hole and couldn’t afford King’s exorbitant “rent.” But the Ace didn’t just hand out money like some kind of Robin Hood; no, he was also responsible for delivering medicine to sick babies and saving people from fires and protecting the innocent and all sorts of things which sounded half like a fairy tale. But Finnie was a passionate believer in the man’s righteousness, and that was hard to argue with.
And then King’s men had caught him. Using Quint himself as the bait, King had set a trap and wounded the Ace…then pinned it on a nearby rancher, just because the man happened to have the same injury the Black Ace had received during the gunfight.
King might have the money to control a bunch of goons, but that didn’t make him the law. And when Quint had realized they were in the middle of lynching Mr. Hartwell without a trial, he’d lost any respect he might’ve had for Sheriff McNelis’s position. The man was a fraud, and a downright bastard, to abuse his duty to the law by allowing that lynching.
It had damn near killed Quint to make it to the lynching—he’d reopened his wound trying—but it hadn’t mattered. The real Black Ace had shown up, shooting the rope and freeing Mr. Hartwell in an incredible display of marksmanship.
That was the moment Quint had realized the situation in Black Aces, Montana wasn’t exactly the way Mr. King had been explaining. When a US Marshal and a notorious vigilante find themselves working for the exact same goal—stopping a lynching—then the Marshal needed to reevaluate exactly who was the good guy and who was the bad guy.
Which is what he’d been trying to do all these weeks, while fending off increasingly angry demands from King to do something about the threat.
It was also why he’d been pleased to meet that “threat” in person two nights ago. He’d been returning from another midnight foray into King’s land, trying to figure out just what was happening with the mine, when he’d met up with the Black Ace sneaking out of Gomez’s store. He’d done his best to put the man at ease, trying to find out more information about him, and had been surp
rised when he didn’t speak.
Now, just as he’d told the Ace, no one had ever mentioned his muteness. That meant it was likely the man wasn’t mute, but was keeping his mouth shut. Why? The likeliest answer was because he’d known Quint would recognize his voice.
He’d made a point to keep the Ace there as long as possible, studying him. But he’d seemed average; average height, average build, average bundled-up-against-the cold. Without a voice or face, Quint had nothing to go on.
But at least he’d had a chance to thank the Black Ace for trying to save him that night King used Quint as bait. That’d been worth it. And he’d warned the man to quit his midnight activities, but it’d been halfhearted at best.
Finnie and her customers had had fewer stories about the Ace’s adventures in the last month or so. Sure, there were just as many people needing a helping hand, but neighbors were helping one another now. There were a few tales of mysterious benefactors, but if it was the Ace, he wasn’t leaving his trademark calling cards anymore.
“What’s that?”
Cinco had been living at the saloon as long as Quint had, and truth be told, he liked the quiet, serious kid. His questions weren’t even annoying, asked as they were in that subdued tone. But this question sounded more enthusiastic.
And as Quint urged his horse up over the rise, he saw why. The boy was leaning forward in the saddle, the coat fallen forgotten from his shoulders, as he looked with excitement at the empty camp below.
His question was echoed all around Quint, in various guises.
“Where the hell are all the miners?”
“Place looks deserted! Look at how deep that snow is!”
“So where is everyone?”
“They ain’t staying in town, are they? Maybe they’re living someplace else?”
“Then why’d King try so hard to keep us away from here, huh? He didn’t want us to know the miners weren’t here.”
“Then where are they?”
It was Mr. Gomez himself who stood up in his sleigh and waved his hands for silence. “Calm down, everyone. We’ll get to the bottom of this!”
“If the miners ain’t living here—”
“I know,” Gomez said in that deep, respected tone of his. “They ain’t living here, and they ain’t living in town, so they’re not here.”
Mutterings broke out from the men as the womenfolk did their best to keep the excited children together.
It was Lucas Ryan, the owner of Sunset Valley Ranch, who stood up in his sleigh. “That means there’s no one working the mine.”
Beside him, his pretty blonde wife was trying to keep their toddler seated while she cuddled the baby, but she nodded in agreement.
People began to call out their speculations or agreements, and soon everyone was talking at once. A piercing whistle broke through the noise, and all heads snapped to the far side of the crowd, where Mrs. Blake, the schoolteacher, stood in the bed of one of her husband’s livery sleighs, more than a few youngsters jostling around her.
She smiled serenely, as if she hadn’t just controlled the group the way she must control her rowdy charges, and held up her hand. “If there’s no one working the mine, as it appears, then it seems Mr. King has more problems than he’s let on.”
“And some explaining to do!” someone called from the crowd.
Around them, mutterings turned to angry discussions and guesses at King’s purposes, and Quint glanced at Finnie.
To his surprise, she was smiling.
And when she caught him looking, her smile just increased. He raised a brow, wondering why the hell she was so happy about the townspeople’s discovery and anger. He’d known the camp was empty, of course, and could guess what it meant, but why would she be pleased?
He didn’t have to wait long. With a cluck, she urged her horse closer to his, and tilted her head to be heard over the clamor around them.
“Don’t you see?” she asked, still smiling brilliantly. “King’s control over them is slipping. He’s only been able to cow them for so long, because they weren’t working together. Now they are!”
Thoughtfully, Quint’s gaze swept over the gathered people of Black Aces. She was right. Whatever King’s explanation was for the empty camp—and Quint was damn curious too—these people weren’t going to forget their anger today. Not only that, but they wouldn’t forget their neighbors’ anger as well. That was important, knowing they all felt the same way.
“This is an outrage!” A reedy voice rose over the crowd. “A travesty! My James would’ve never allowed such a thing to happen!”
Conversations halted as the townspeople turned to the elderly woman who now struggled to stand from the bench of her sleigh. Her companion, a meek dark-haired woman, was attempting to quiet her.
“No, I will not be shushed, Tavie!” the woman yelled angrily.
Quint recognized her as Ruth Hoyle, the widow of the man who’d lost the title to the Bicycle Mine to King, and figured she had a right to be angry.
She was short and plump, and her face was red as she shook her gloved fist towards the empty camp. “My James always treated his workers fairly, and you know that. They were well-paid and helped our economy, didn’t they?” Without waiting for a response, and shaking off her companion’s calming hand, she went on with her complaints. “Augustus King has run my husband’s mine into the ground, and ruined our little town in the process.”
The mutterings—mostly agreements—started up again, but she wasn’t through.
“When my son returns, Mr. King will be sorry he ever disrespected my husband’s legacy this way! Why, when my Jack comes back, he’ll show King and all of his goons exactly what it means to be a Hoyle—”
She was cut off by a wave of comments; some laughing, some pitying.
“You know he’s not coming back, Ruth.”
“Boy’s been dead for years.”
“Lost at sea, is what I heard.”
“Nah, remember? It was a duel, wasn’t it?”
“He liked his whiskey; probably got drunk and fell overboard.”
“Don’t pirates prefer rum?”
The speculation swirled around them, and Quint watched the old woman’s face redden further. She stomped her foot in agitation.
“No! He is coming back, I know it! And when he does, he’ll show that Augustus King exactly what—”
Her tirade was finally quieted by her companion, who pulled the old woman down to her seat once more and draped the heavy robe across her lap, whispering comfortingly to her.
Quint frowned as he watched the pair. From what he’d gleaned as he asked around, Ruth Hoyle was still living in the house her husband had built for her, which now sat on land King owned. He’d demanded a rent from the widow, the same as he took money each month from the townspeople with homes or businesses on his land. It was all above-board and legal…but mean as hell. Sure, as landlord, he could demand whatever rent he wanted, but requiring a poor old woman to come up with more and more money to stay in her own home was downright nasty.
Luckily, the townspeople helped her where they could, to hear Finnie tell it. The old woman’s last two companions had left because Mrs. Hoyle had been unable to pay them well enough, but this new one was tiny and plain and probably didn’t have any other prospects. Besides, the two women seemed to trust one another, judging from the way the widow was holding her companion’s hand now.
The townspeople went back to calling out theories—about King or the poor woman’s dead son—and alternated between anger and laughter. Finally, it was Reverend Trapper who got their attention, pushing himself up in his stirrups.
“People of Black Aces!”
His neighbors quieted—mostly—as if glad for the leadership.
He took a deep breath and smiled a little weakly. Was he trying to be reassuring? “It sounds like we have plenty to discuss. I, too, am curious about why this camp is empty, although it explains why I was turned away last week.”
“Where’s Bur
ton and O’Grady and Ziggy and the rest of them, anyhow?” someone shouted.
“Where’s McNelis, for that matter?”
Quint’s brows went up. Where was that useless toady of a sheriff?
The pastor continued, “Well, I don’t have any answers, any more than the rest of you. But we can argue about this back in town the same as here. For now, we’ve got a bunch of kids with frozen noses looking to prepare for Christmas.”
He gestured to Mrs. Blake, who was trying to keep her charges in the sleigh with her husband’s help. She flashed the reverend a grateful smile and a nod.
The man pointed to a strand of nearby pines, which showed evidence of culling in past years.
“So?” called Reverend Trapper. “Who’s ready to cut some Christmas trees?”
Quint could tell the topic hadn’t been forgotten, but the townspeople laughed good-naturedly and allowed their attention to focus on the new task. As the men climbed down from their sleighs and took the axes their wives offered them, children scampered between the trees where the snow was shallower, calling out suggestions and advice.
It was…nice. Quint was getting that fairy tale feeling again, watching all these people celebrating and laughing together. Without King here, this town was downright quaint, and he was pleased he’d had the chance to visit, whatever the reason, and no matter that he was an outsider.
That’s when Finnie caught his eye, struggling to help Cinco down out of the saddle. In a flash, Quint was standing in the snow beside her, his horse’s reins wrapped around his palm as he reached up to grab the kid under his arms.
Cinco had arrived at the High Stakes under similar circumstances as Quint himself, actually, and the kid’s leg still wasn’t fully healed. In fact, as they’d ridden, Quint had watched the boy stretch and rub his left leg, as if the break was still bothering him. That’s why he carried Cinco further than necessary, despite the slight twinge in Quint’s almost-healed shoulder, and set him down off to one side of the grove of trees just as the kid’s hat fell off.
Knowing Finnie had bought Cinco’s winter clothes with the hope he’d grow into them—the kid sure was skinny—Quint figured the hat was just too big. He bent down and scooped it up, dusted it off, then planted it on the boy’s head.
Three of a Kind: Black Aces, Book Two Page 3