Jessie’s smile evaporated as Grace nudged Crowbait and started for the town. Tokota and Ruby exchanged a glance, then followed her. Jessie looked down at Kaga and said, “I got a real bad feeling about this, Kaga.”
The wolf whined. Maybe he did too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The sedate approach into town was marred by the sound of gunfire.
Jessie stiffened and his gaze snapped around the outskirts of town. Gunpowder boomed again, and though the mountains distorted the echo, it sounded as though it came right from the guts of town. Jessie’s gaze fell on a no-frills signpost that pointed to town and declared Barren Banks. His heart sank. Some part of him hoped they’d ride until they were old and gray and never come across the Banks. Now it seemed only fitting they should come upon the town in time to hear gunplay.
He cocked his head as the four horses and wolf continued along the dusty road into Barren Banks. Unlike Temerity, the shops and houses of the Banks did not bear the trappings of wealth, and unlike Whitestand Hollow, they were not well kept and quaint. Yet the houses were neither abandoned nor decrepit as had been the empty dwellings in Sandycrag Creek. Rather, these houses and shops looked lived-in but poorly maintained. The folk here were living hard.
A rangy mutt wandered onto the street and sniffed a well-decayed, well-chewed varmint that might’ve once been a stray coyote. The dog’s ribs stuck out against its skin as it hungrily jawed the varmint’s bones. As the four approached, the dog growled and slathered. Kaga padded close enough to send the dog skittering away. As they passed, Jessie looked over his shoulder and saw the dog inch back to the dead critter.
As the four riders continued, the sounds of gunshots were joined by whoops and hollers. Grace slid her Winchester out of its holster and slung the rifle around her shoulders. Tokota adjusted the strap on his Sharps rifle and stared grimly ahead. Jessie didn’t draw his Colt but was acutely aware of cool steel pressing hard against his abdomen. Even Ruby lowered a hand to her leg, hitched her skirt, and revealed a tiny Derringer holstered to her thigh.
As they approached the center of town, the buildings loomed taller but in no better condition than the houses on the outskirts. Ahead, a throng of folk congregated around a raised gallows. Aside from one or two raised voices, the townsfolk milled in relative silence. A small boy peeled out of a house and made for the throng. Jessie frowned at the skinny boy. His clothes hung loosely and his eyes seemed too large for his gaunt face. He barely glanced at the riders before shoving into the crowd. In seconds he was lost in the legs and dresses of the townsfolk.
Grace reined in and gazed at the crowd. A few folk were armed with pitchforks, and near the gallows, better-dressed men gripped rifles and shotguns. The mood was sullen and tense.
Grace slithered from her saddle, and Jessie and Tokota joined her on the ground. Ruby sat atop Lumière and gazed at the crowd with narrowed eyes.
They approached the throng as an ugly mutter passed through the crowd. The agitated murmur loudened as the door of a nearby building opened. A young man stumbled outside. He blinked in the bright afternoon sunlight and held up his hands as the crowd burbled. Two armed men followed him outside, their shotguns fixed on him. Jessie doubted they needed shotguns to heel the man; he was thin and tottered on unsure legs. As he turned and caught sight of the gallows his legs wobbled and he sank to his knees. The armed men hooked their fingers under his arms and dragged him toward the gallows. Individuals in the crowd shook their heads and grumbled.
“What’d he do?” Jessie mused, more to himself than to anyone in particular. He was surprised when someone answered. “He’s a thief.”
Jessie and Grace turned to the speaker. He stood at the back of the crowd and clutched a broom. Though his skin was dark brown, his knuckles were white around the broom handle.
“What’d he hook?” Jessie asked. “Must have been biggity to get him hanged.”
The man’s gaze drifted to Jessie. “Ain’t that the gospel?” He looked at the young man in irons and shook his head. “Benjamin there committed the crime and sin of stealing bread.”
Grace frowned. “Bread? You telling me that fella’s gonna twist ’cause he stole some grub?”
The man nodded. His face was solemn, dark eyes haunted.
“P’shaw! That ain’t right!” Jessie exclaimed. “A hanging’s supposed to be for horse thievery or robbing banks, not for stealing grub!”
The man with the hooded eyes turned to Grace and Jessie. “You ain’t from ’round these parts, are you.” It wasn’t a question.
Grace bristled. “Don’t matter where we’re from. Nowhere is it rightful to twist a man for stealing grub.”
The man’s gaze drifted back to the gallows. “Rightful here in Barren Banks, ma’am.”
Jessie frowned as the armed men nudged the young thief to the gallows. He stumbled and barked his shins on the steps. The armed men jabbed him with their rifles until he climbed to his feet and continued. His clothes were frayed and swirled around him as he stood on the gallows.
“Looks like he ain’t had a good meal in weeks. No wonder he hooked some bread,” Jessie snapped. The townsfolk beside them cast dark looks at Jessie and edged away. Grace’s hands slid to her revolvers as she eyeballed the people closest to them.
On the gallows, the armed men slipped a noose around the young thief’s neck.
Jessie sucked in a breath. “Grace, we cain’t let them do this. It ain’t right.”
The man with the broom looked at Jessie, his brows furrowing. Jessie’s face was hot with anger. Grace wore her own outrage tattooed across her face as she nodded. She fingered Justice as the dark-skinned man stepped closer to them.
“Whatever you’re fixing to do, I beg you, don’t. Please. It’ll just cause more bloodshed.”
“What? You saying it’s alright for a man to get the twist for stealing a bit of grub?” Jessie asked.
The man closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus no. It ain’t right. But that’s how it is here in Barren Banks. And unless you want to get yourselves and a whole mess of other folk killed, I beg you to stand quiet.”
Grace snorted and gripped Justice. Tokota swiftly stepped to her side and placed a hard, calloused hand over hers. “I think the Freedman speaks true. There is some sica in this place. I feel it.”
Grace shook off Tokota’s hand but left Justice holstered. She turned to the crowd. To a single person, the townsfolk wore weary, morose expressions. A few tears rolled down cheeks, but otherwise, the crowd watched the gallows in silence. The same exhausted defeat was etched on the face of the young man who stood on the gallows. The only animated folk were the men cradling their shotguns and rifles in the crooks of their arms.
“Those longriders cain’t run roughshod over a whole town. C’mon! Where’re your bulls? Where’s the sheriff?” Grace asked.
The man with the broom shook his head. He waved toward the gallows where a man trod the steps. He was a nondescript chap dressed in fine duds with a head of lank hair combed and parted on the side. Jessie scanned for the flash of a sheriff’s badge pinned to the man’s lapels but couldn’t see one.
“This man has committed a crime.” The chap’s voice carried easily over the quiet crowd. “This man has callously stolen fare that you, the good folk of Barren Banks, have toiled and bled for. Fare that is rightfully earmarked for the hard-working miners who keep our town flush with gold.”
Jessie’s brows dipped. “Don’t look that flush to me.”
The chap turned to the condemned man. “It’s a crime to steal fare from the miners. What have you to say?”
The young man lowered his head for a moment. When he raised his eyes he gazed across the crowd. “The children. Someone see to my children. They gonna starve to death soon.”
The chap sneered and raised his hands as the crowd’s muttering increased in volume and intensity.
The young man surged forward until the noose was tight against his throat. “And someone see to the end of this black-hearted cuss and his
hold on this town! There ain’t gonna be no profit! There ain’t gonna be no gold! Not for me! Not for you! You’re all gonna starve under the yoke of—”
One of the armed men slammed his rifle into the man’s stomach, ending his tirade. The young man sagged on numb legs. The noose bit into his throat as he gasped and clutched his stomach.
Jessie hissed and started forward. Grace grabbed his shirt and yanked him back as Tokota hovered behind her. The dark-skinned man lowered his gaze and murmured a prayer, his knuckles white around the broom handle. Up on the gallows, the chap strode to the young man, who staggered to his feet. His face was red as he coughed and spluttered. The chap leaned in and whispered to the young man. When he finished, he stood back, well clear of the trapdoor, and nodded to one of the armed men. The cowpuncher yanked a metal handle and the trapdoor swung open. The young man dropped and was not fortunate enough to have his neck break cleanly. Instead, he thrashed about on the rope and died of slow asphyxiation.
As the final twitches of the swinging body stilled, the crowd slowly moved away.
“What in tarnation was that all about? Why’d that man twist for stealing grub? And where the hell are your sheriff and bulls?” Grace asked the dark-skinned man.
He sighed and waved at the gallows where the well-dressed chap strode around the hanged man. “You’re looking at the sheriff ma’am. Aaron Boothe. Sheriff and mayor of Barren Banks.”
“P’shaw, ain’t that convenient,” Jessie muttered.
Tokota glowered. “Freedman, there is something foul in this town. You know the way it works. Will you speak with us?”
The dark-skinned man gazed at Tokota, Grace, and Jessie and frowned. He slowly nodded. “Outriders ought to know the dangers they face coming to Barren Banks. Come with me.”
Tokota nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Freedman.”
“Call me Joseph. Joseph Armstrong.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Joseph led the small group past Barren Banks’ shanty houses.
He’d nodded to Ruby when he met her, still perched atop Lumière. If he was rattled by Kaga or their impressive horses, he didn’t let on.
Jessie was transfixed by the plight of Barren Banks as they left the main street and wove through scrub grass and stones, passing shack after shack. Some were little more than tents with crude wooden annexes tacked on their sides. A good storm could blow the whole town away. Yet perched on the side of the mountain, like an oversized bird of prey, sat a single stately manor home that overlooked the entire town. Jessie’s eyes narrowed. He reckoned he knew who resided there. The mountainside itself was as barren as the town was named; low yellow grass grew in sparse clumps from its red, dusty slopes, but there wasn’t a tree or shrub for miles in any direction.
Joseph came to a small hovel and gestured to the open field beside the abode. “If you got tent pegs, you can fix your horses here. Ain’t got no feed for them, but I can get you a bucket to water them.”
Tokota climbed from the saddle and nodded. “I will tend to them.”
Grace tossed him Crowbait’s reins. The ornery nag didn’t seem to mind the native manhandling her; where she’d bite and kick most anyone else, Tokota could soothe her foul temper.
As they dismounted outside Joseph’s shack, a willowy young woman leaned out the doorway. Though her skin was lighter than Joseph’s, it was obvious she was his kin. She had the same broad nose, thick lips, and long-lashed eyes. Where Ruby was stunning and exotic, this lass was pretty in a familiar way. Jessie grinned at her and received a reserved smile in return.
Joseph approached the young woman and lowered an arm around her shoulder. “My daughter, Abigail.”
They nodded their greetings to the young woman, who returned them hesitantly. Her gaze strayed to the big wolf and native man on the periphery of the shack, and her brow creased. She was clearly ill at ease in such company.
Jessie, Grace, and Ruby followed Joseph and Abigail into their home and left Tokota and Kaga to tend the horses and keep watch. Jessie glanced Tokota’s screwed up face and realized the native man still hadn’t warmed to the shapeshifting wolf...the yee naaldlooshii. He hoped they’d at least be amicable in their time together, if not friendly.
Though sparsely furnished and devoid of luxury, Joseph’s one-room home was clean, tidy, and in as good repair as could be expected. Everything in his home was utilitarian except for a small wooden plaque on one wall. Words were scored into the wood. Let He Who Is Without Sin Cast The First Stone. A rustic cot lay against one wall and cramped beside it was a table with two chairs. A cooking hearth dominated the other wall, though the firepit was cold.
Joseph frowned and glanced at Ruby. “Frightfully sorry, ma’am, but we haven’t a rightful place for you to sit.”
Ruby gazed at the table and chairs, then turned and headed for the bed. She sat down in a flurry of skirts and pulled her feet up under her. It was a graceful, elegant pose; she might have been perched on a chaise-longue in the finest city estate. Joseph swallowed and waved Jessie and Grace to the chairs. They sat as he headed to the hearth. Abigail frowned at Ruby, then turned and busied herself with the stew pot hung above the cold hearth.
“We got no belly wash nor fancy tea. Got some cold meat broth if that’s of interest.” He gestured at the stew pot.
Grace shook her head. “Don’t worry. It’s fine to just sit and jaw.”
Jessie nodded at the wooden plaque. “You a preacher-man?”
Joseph tracked his gaze to the plaque. “Don’t gotta be a preacher-man to appreciate God’s word.”
Grace snorted. “Don’t think I’ve ever set eyes on a man without sin,” she said.
Joseph looked at her strangely. “I ain’t claiming to be such a man.”
“Good, because you and this whole town just stood by and let a man twist over something right sonkey. That makes you all just as bad as the egg who did the hanging in my book.”
“Grace!” Jessie admonished. He glanced at Joseph and expected anger on his swarthy features, but all he saw was sorrow. Abigail cast a dark look over her shoulder but remained tight-lipped.
Ruby stirred on the cot. “Do not forget the goings on at Le Chat Affamee, cherie. There are sometimes extenuating circumstances that make things less black and white and much more gray than you’d like.”
Grace frowned in response.
Ruby’s emerald gaze drifted to Joseph. “Perhaps you would tell us about this gray town?”
Joseph leaned against the hearth and rubbed his hands over his face. Abigail put a reassuring hand on his arm. From behind his hands, he said, “No. She’s right. There ain’t no excuses for allowing such things to go on—to keep going on—here in Barren Banks. Truth is, we’re afraid. Too afraid to stand up.”
“Afraid of this Aaron Boothe?” Grace asked.
Joseph sighed. “Afraid of him, maybe. Afraid of losing what he promised, definitely.”
“What’d he promise?” Jessie asked.
“Gold. More gold than we could spend in ten lifetimes. Each. Old Barren Mountain’s supposed to be full up with the stuff. It just ain’t given over its haul yet.”
Grace frowned. “He lives up on the hill in a mighty fine estate and you think there ain’t been no gold flushed out yet? You addle-headed or what?”
Joseph stirred. “Aaron Boothe came to us dandified. His pockets were already fat with coin. Him and his missus built the place on the hill with their own coin. Promised to turn Barren Banks into a talking point on the map. See, the Banks were nothing more than a blip on the map before he came to town. Came in on a stage, wife and child in tow. A wagon followed behind, weighed down with boxes and crates of Lord knows what. Well, he waltzed in like he rightly owned the place and Lord’s sake, turned out he rightly did. Showed a deed to Barren Mountain and the supposed gold mine in her belly. We were just a trading post before he came through. A place for folk to stop on their way to the coast. Well, when Mister Boothe produced that deed we all saw our futures mighty
bright and biggity. We’d work the mine and be flush with gold.”
Grace frowned. “What happened?”
Abigail’s face pinched and she looked away.
Joseph drew in a deep breath. “Mister Boothe made it clear very early on he didn’t want no labor from the Banks. Not for the mine anyhow. He said we was more suited to farming than mining. Most folk agreed happily enough; we were good farmers back then, and mining is known to be mighty dangerous work.”
“I ain’t seen no good farms or crops around here,” Jessie said.
Joseph nodded. “That’s why I said we were good farmers. Mister Boothe told us he’d get his own miners and all he wanted in return was for them to be properly fed by the folk of the Banks. In return, we’d all get a share of the profits when they cracked a vein.”
Joseph turned and lifted the stew pot from the hearth. Abigail hovered beside him. He carried it over to the table and set it down. “Started out just like he said. We farmed our fields, tended the sheep, and sent a steady stream of food up the mountain to Boothe’s manor. We didn’t see the miners; they didn’t come down to grub with us or sip at the watering hole. Don’t rightly know where they camped, guess it was at the base of the shaft.”
Joseph laid his long thin fingers on the stew pot lid. “Sure enough a few nuggets streamed down the hill in return. Not much but Mister Boothe said it was just the start. Funny how time moves on and things just get worse and worse in little bits. So little you don’t tend to notice at first. Guessing it were the loss of the sheep that was most noticeable. One or two was written off to wolves or coyote. But as more and more disappeared it came clear something else was going on.”
Jessie leaned forward on his chair. “Outlaws?”
Joseph shrugged. “We thought so at first. Our folk tightened their belts, explained to Mister Boothe we didn’t have any more meat except varmint, and hit the clay twice as hard, determined to pull in a decent crop. Then the nuggets dried up. We kept sending food up the mountain but naught came back in return. Some folk spoke to Mister Boothe and his answer was always the same. ‘She’s a stubborn vein. But she’ll give.’”
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